Post by louise on Jan 17, 2010 12:17:37 GMT -5
OLIVER TRISTAN LYTELL
[/size]
* FEELS JUST LIKE WE'RE LOSING CONTROL.
and if you let go, then i'll let go tonight.[/center]
TELL US ABOUT YOURSELF.
"Well, hi. Is this some sort of interview? I’m not that interesting, really, so prepare to be bored, I guess. So, uh, my name is Oliver. Oliver Lytell. But its Ollie, to my friends. To the patients, its Dr Lytell. Well, sometimes its Oliver. Um, they call me whatever they want, really. They‘re not a very respectful bunch, I suppose. Yeah, there’s all sorts of names. Anyways, I‘m 22, an 80‘s kid. I don‘t remember the 80‘s, though. Most likely cause I was only about three when it ended. Maybe that makes me a 90‘s kid. I don‘t know if it really matters. This is just me rambling on. I tend to do that a lot. Just ignore me when necessary. I’m bisexual. I figured it out when I was like, thirteen, and I was looking at guys as well as girls. In that way, if you get me. I’m pretty feminine, so I’ve been told, so its quite easy to guess. So yeah, I come from England. Born and bred Londoner. I‘m not the brightest bulb in the box, you could say. The only reason I got this job was because they‘re short of staff, and I was the only applicant.
TELL US ABOUT YOUR MEDICAL HISTORY.
[/size][/font]"Well, its no secret that I used to be a patient here. Most of the patients like to make fun of me for it, to be honest. But it’s the reason I applied for the job. Well, that, and the fact that I tried to be a doctor, and failed. But I thought because I had been here already, I could.. empathise with the patients, you know? But yeah, I used to be anorexic, and bulimic. I suppose it started with puberty, I was always awkward and gawky, the weird kid who couldn’t get girls, do sports and who wasn’t very smart. It was like I couldn’t do anything right. Of course, the clichéd story, the kids in school, they were always quite mean, but it got worse in secondary school. It was quite a rough area, and like in any school , there were bullies, and I never really had the most self esteem, and I thought I might fit in more if I looked ‘better’. I started skipping meals, and then I didn’t keep anything down, and I didn’t eat for days on end. I thought it was normal at the time, the only thing that was important or necessary was getting thinner, nothing else really mattered. Then I ended up in this place, and I stayed for about six years. It was a dark period in my life, but I’m completely better now. But it wasn't without its consequences. I still can't look in a mirror; some sort of strange side effect of my therapy. I have cardiac arrhythmia, irregular beating of the heart, meaning I can't get over stressed or do any form of sport. I don't mind, really, because I was never really very good at sports, anyway. Only badminton. And volleyball. Girl sports, which is a bit embarrassing. I want to help patients who are in the same boat as I was, see if it'll make any difference. Probably not, but I can try, right? That’s if they don‘t kill me first."
HOW CAN WE ACCOMODATE YOU BETTER?
[/size][/font]”Getting some of the kids to stop being such pricks would be nice. But if you can‘t do that, then if you could get a good stock of Earl Grey tea in, that would be wonderful. I like a nice cup of tea in the morning. And before bed. And in the afternoon. What can I say? Us Britons like our tea. Its extra nice with honey and sugar and cream in it. A new clipboard would be nice, cause someone graffitied mine and then broke it in half. I swear I didn’t step on it this time, I really did find it like that, honest. I like to talk to patients, to try and understand them, but its pretty hard sometimes, when they‘re trying to dunk your head down the loo or trying to push you down the stairs. I think I trust them too easily. It doesn‘t always work out in my favour. I love jazz music, and classic rock. I like to sleep in, until someone comes and drags me out of bed. I just like to sleep, I never knew that was such a bad thing. I like to cook, even if I’m not really a master chef. I used to bug my housekeeper to let me help her, but she would always have to make a backup dinner because I always burnt stuff. Now I just make fish fingers when I’m on dinner duties. But hey, its still cooking, right?
I hate it when people tell me I’m a bad doctor, just because I can’t control the patients. I mean, they would understand if they had to keep up with the amount of people a level four patient has raped or how many times a level two patient has tried to stab someone. I hate cleaning. I’ve never had to do it before in my life, and I really don’t want to do it now. I don’t even really know how to turn on a vacuum cleaner, much less use it.
Uh, my strengths? I don‘t have many, really. But I can touch my nose with my tongue. That’s a talent.. right? Well, I count it as one. I‘ve been practicing for years, so it definitely should be counted. I know the words to every David Bowie song ever written. David Bowie is fucking great. One of the best artists in the world. I can say the alphabet backwards, really really fast. It took ages to master that one, and I still get confused on the j and the k, but mostly, I’ve got it down. its funny, cause I can’t even remember the alphabet the normal way.
I‘m quite clumsy, and I can‘t really stay on my feet for too long without tripping over something or myself. I‘m not the best doctor in the world, but I do try. The patients like to mess with me. Steal my stuff, call me names and such. I guess I‘m just a pushover."
TELL US ABOUT YOUR PAST.
[/size][/font]"Well, both my parent‘s families were well off. Very well off. As in living in a mansion going to tea with the queen sort of rich. My mother’s father was the Lord of Cambridge, and my father’s father was.. well, I‘m not sure, exactly, but I know it was something incredibly posh. Something to do with owning land. Anyway, they were both very privileged, and my father met my mother at her debutante ball, which was a tradition back in the old days for young girls to come out onto the scene for gentlemen to court her. My parent‘s weren‘t interested in eachother, but their families were very much interested in the money aspect of things. It was an arranged marriage, almost, and a year later they had me, despite the fact that my mother was only twenty and my father was only twenty two. My mother was a born socialised, a born writer, but she definitely wasn‘t a born mother. She treated me with courteous detatchment, even when I was a baby. My mother used to travel all over the world researching for her books, ideas for her newest novels, intriguing personalities to base her characters on. My father was a business man with quite a few mistresses on his arm. Their relationship was fucked up from the beginning, but it was more like a civil partnership than a marriage. They both know what went on behind eachothers backs, but they didn‘t mind, because they didn‘t love eachother. Due to my parent‘s business trips, I hardly ever saw them. My earliest memories are spending my time with the Portuguese housekeeper, and the Italian butler. They were almost like my second parents. They looked after me, fed me bathed me, took me on trips. I had everything I wanted, toys, spare time, people who were paid to make sure I had fun. From a young age, I was a classic rich kid. However, despite having anything any child could ask for, I didn‘t possess one talent or quality that made me special, or different. I didn‘t notice this until I went to primary school. I tripped in the schoolyard when trying to play games, I couldn‘t read very well and I was rather shit at doing art. Despite being extremely wealthy, I went to a rougher secondary school because I didn‘t get the grades to go to Grammar school. I was quite glad of that, though. It was a Catholic school and I heard they hit you with rulers. So yeah, school wasn‘t much better, and I mentioned the bullies before. I guess I was an easy target, I still am. But that didn‘t mean I liked it. Fuck no. Getting called a fag and coming home with broken ribs and split lips everyday can really knock someone’s confidence. That’s when I basically gave up on school and turned to making myself better instead. It sounded like a good solution at the time. It meant if I looked better, people would like me better too. But they didn‘t, so I just tried harder. For about a year I lived off vitamin pills and an apple a day. So my housekeeper informed my mother, who sent me off here, ‘the highest valued institution in the world‘. I suppose it wasn‘t too bad. The therapy was a drag, and eating was torture, but it did work. It took a while, though, and I collapsed one day during lunch and I had to go to the infirmary. It kind of sucks finding out that you have a bad heart, and that you can‘t do stuff other people can. But I never really could do those things in the first place, so it doesn’t affect me much. So yeah, I was here for about three years, until I was nineteen, and then I was allowed to leave, fully cured. I went back to school to finish my GCSEs, but I only passed English language and Media studies, which was a bit disheartening, considering I wanted to be a doctor. But my father pulled a few strings, most likely to make up for being so absent, and got me a job here. So I‘m hoping that this will be able to give me the credentials towards becoming a real doctor."
IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE?
[/size][/font]"Uh, could you tell the kid in room 113 to give me my shoes back? Thanks.."
THE MASTERMIND BEHIND IT ALL.
[/size][/font]hey, my name is LOUISE.[/color] i have FIFTEEN[/color] tracks spinning on my record. this is my FIRST[/color] character. i have been roleplaying for TWO YEARS[/color]. the password is SILICONE, SALINE, POISON INJECT ME.[/color].[/font][/size]
[/blockquote][/blockquote][/justify]
Tom made his way into school, relishing the rush of warmth that enveloped him as he stepped in from the cold, into the toasty foyer of the building. He didn’t exactly hate the cold, but he didn’t love it either. Originally, he was from Chicago, famously named the windy city for a reason, so he was used to putting on millions and millions of layers before he went out anywhere. He must have about twenty scarves and hats in his closet, and they always came in handy. Canada was warm in the Summer, but as it was mid-December, it absolutely fucking freezing, the snow lying in heaps, the powdery white substance sticking to shoes, jackets, gloves, cars.
He looked around him, noticing the complete lack of people in the place, the only signs of life being the elderly receptionist and little freshman reading a book in the corner. Tom looked at his watch; he hadn’t realised it was so early in the morning. He roads were packed with people going to work, and he hadn’t looked at a clock yet. Still, it didn’t bother him that much. It would give him time to mark the essays from his sophomore class the day before. They were the worst. They didn’t listen in class, their homework was always half assed and sloppy, and they always mouthed off to him during lessons. Of course, he didn’t take it. He pretended to be nice until the senior teacher who was meant to be supervising him left him to his own devices, and then he would be raring to go, ready to hand out detentions, extra work, and tutors. Once, he threatened a kid, who was being especially cheeky. He couldn’t remember what he’d said exactly, but he did know that the kid never said a word in class afterwards, and never went near him if he passed him in the hallways. Sometimes, frightening them worked best. They needed to know their place, who was in charge.
Tom wandered into the staff room, taking in the sight of some of the older teachers, the ones who basically lived at the school, gossiping about some of the other staff like they were the students. Tom sometimes liked to listen into their conversations, hear what they were saying about everyone, and then casually mention it to the people they were talking about. It was like a hobby, ruining people’s reputations and how others saw them. It was fun for him. Tom didn’t give a fuck about how the other people felt, as long as he got a kick out of it, it was good in his books. He made himself a cup of black coffee, strong and bitter, but it warmed him up considerably. It was cheaper than Starbucks, which he liked to boycott, deeming the place altogether too corporate; he felt it was taking over the world, pretty much. Plus, the lines were incredibly long, and Tom wasn’t a very patient person. He pulled out the papers, slipped on his black rimmed glasses and started flitting through the homework, not even really looking, just marking them all with big red X’s and F’s. It wasn’t like it would be a bad reflection on him if the kids did badly. He was only a teaching assistant. The blame would all be down to the experienced teacher, the official. Tom smirked at the thought of the students faces when they all found that they failed their homework. It would be so amusing.
He had just finished them as the first bell rang, signalling the start of class, and he could hear the loud chatter of students outside as he down the rest of his coffee, and got his papers in order. Tom reprimanded a few students who were fighting or making out in the hallways as he made his way to his classroom. He loved having the power to do that, even if it was petty, it was something. He liked the idea of having control over others; that was why he took this job. It was the easiest way he could get that sort of control. The supervising teacher was leaving him to his own devices today, so he would be taking the class without having someone breathing down his neck all the time. He smirked as the class came filing in. It was one of the senior classes. They actually paid attention, most of the time, as if they wanted to learn.
He raised an eyebrow as he saw one boy walk into the room, one he knew very well. Dakota, or Kota, as he preferred to be called, had changed so much since the last time he’d seen him. He was taller, he was more mature looking, and he seemed awkward, as if he didn’t quite feel comfortable being around the rest of the students. He hadn’t been in Tom’s class before, but he wasn’t going to complain. He hadn’t seen him since he’d come back. Tom still thought the boy was absolutely beautiful. See, Tom did have an ulterior motive when he came back here. The main reason was that he liked the feeling of control, but he wanted to see how his little Kota was doing. He hadn’t missed him over the four years, but really, Tom wasn’t capable of that emotion. But he wanted to see how Kota was doing without him, and see if he could win the boy back. Tom had no doubt that he could, it would be incredibly easy for him, but still, he hoped Kota might put up a bit of a fight.
He watched the boy take a seat with a gleam in his eye, a small smirk flitting across his features as he stood up from his desk and announced to the students what they would be doing. He explained the task, and let them get on with it, as it wasn’t a group discussion, just a simple comprehension of the novel they were reading at the moment. While they were occupied, Tom settled down to his own book, Great Expectations by Dickens. It was one of his all time favourites, and he opened his small, battered copy at the turned down corner where he’d marked his place, put his feet up on the desk and bean to read. Every once in a while, he’d peer over his book, eyeing the raven haired boy at the back of the classroom, every little movement that he made; it was all so familiar. He barely even noticed the bell ringing as the students started to move out of the class. He saw Dakota start to leave, and quickly, he called out, “Mr Paris, come back here for a second. I have to discuss your plan for your final Literature piece.” To be honest, Tom didn’t have a fucking clue about anyone’s literature pieces, but he sounded convincing enough, and he wanted to talk to Kota, to be close with him again, and how would he do that if the boy was avoiding him?
He leaned back on his desk, a small smirk on his face as he watched the boy come back into the room. ”Kota…” he said softly, pushing himself off the desk, closing the door behind Kota and coming up behind him, taking his hand in his own and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. ”I’ve missed you, love…
He looked around him, noticing the complete lack of people in the place, the only signs of life being the elderly receptionist and little freshman reading a book in the corner. Tom looked at his watch; he hadn’t realised it was so early in the morning. He roads were packed with people going to work, and he hadn’t looked at a clock yet. Still, it didn’t bother him that much. It would give him time to mark the essays from his sophomore class the day before. They were the worst. They didn’t listen in class, their homework was always half assed and sloppy, and they always mouthed off to him during lessons. Of course, he didn’t take it. He pretended to be nice until the senior teacher who was meant to be supervising him left him to his own devices, and then he would be raring to go, ready to hand out detentions, extra work, and tutors. Once, he threatened a kid, who was being especially cheeky. He couldn’t remember what he’d said exactly, but he did know that the kid never said a word in class afterwards, and never went near him if he passed him in the hallways. Sometimes, frightening them worked best. They needed to know their place, who was in charge.
Tom wandered into the staff room, taking in the sight of some of the older teachers, the ones who basically lived at the school, gossiping about some of the other staff like they were the students. Tom sometimes liked to listen into their conversations, hear what they were saying about everyone, and then casually mention it to the people they were talking about. It was like a hobby, ruining people’s reputations and how others saw them. It was fun for him. Tom didn’t give a fuck about how the other people felt, as long as he got a kick out of it, it was good in his books. He made himself a cup of black coffee, strong and bitter, but it warmed him up considerably. It was cheaper than Starbucks, which he liked to boycott, deeming the place altogether too corporate; he felt it was taking over the world, pretty much. Plus, the lines were incredibly long, and Tom wasn’t a very patient person. He pulled out the papers, slipped on his black rimmed glasses and started flitting through the homework, not even really looking, just marking them all with big red X’s and F’s. It wasn’t like it would be a bad reflection on him if the kids did badly. He was only a teaching assistant. The blame would all be down to the experienced teacher, the official. Tom smirked at the thought of the students faces when they all found that they failed their homework. It would be so amusing.
He had just finished them as the first bell rang, signalling the start of class, and he could hear the loud chatter of students outside as he down the rest of his coffee, and got his papers in order. Tom reprimanded a few students who were fighting or making out in the hallways as he made his way to his classroom. He loved having the power to do that, even if it was petty, it was something. He liked the idea of having control over others; that was why he took this job. It was the easiest way he could get that sort of control. The supervising teacher was leaving him to his own devices today, so he would be taking the class without having someone breathing down his neck all the time. He smirked as the class came filing in. It was one of the senior classes. They actually paid attention, most of the time, as if they wanted to learn.
He raised an eyebrow as he saw one boy walk into the room, one he knew very well. Dakota, or Kota, as he preferred to be called, had changed so much since the last time he’d seen him. He was taller, he was more mature looking, and he seemed awkward, as if he didn’t quite feel comfortable being around the rest of the students. He hadn’t been in Tom’s class before, but he wasn’t going to complain. He hadn’t seen him since he’d come back. Tom still thought the boy was absolutely beautiful. See, Tom did have an ulterior motive when he came back here. The main reason was that he liked the feeling of control, but he wanted to see how his little Kota was doing. He hadn’t missed him over the four years, but really, Tom wasn’t capable of that emotion. But he wanted to see how Kota was doing without him, and see if he could win the boy back. Tom had no doubt that he could, it would be incredibly easy for him, but still, he hoped Kota might put up a bit of a fight.
He watched the boy take a seat with a gleam in his eye, a small smirk flitting across his features as he stood up from his desk and announced to the students what they would be doing. He explained the task, and let them get on with it, as it wasn’t a group discussion, just a simple comprehension of the novel they were reading at the moment. While they were occupied, Tom settled down to his own book, Great Expectations by Dickens. It was one of his all time favourites, and he opened his small, battered copy at the turned down corner where he’d marked his place, put his feet up on the desk and bean to read. Every once in a while, he’d peer over his book, eyeing the raven haired boy at the back of the classroom, every little movement that he made; it was all so familiar. He barely even noticed the bell ringing as the students started to move out of the class. He saw Dakota start to leave, and quickly, he called out, “Mr Paris, come back here for a second. I have to discuss your plan for your final Literature piece.” To be honest, Tom didn’t have a fucking clue about anyone’s literature pieces, but he sounded convincing enough, and he wanted to talk to Kota, to be close with him again, and how would he do that if the boy was avoiding him?
He leaned back on his desk, a small smirk on his face as he watched the boy come back into the room. ”Kota…” he said softly, pushing himself off the desk, closing the door behind Kota and coming up behind him, taking his hand in his own and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. ”I’ve missed you, love…
